Sick Fic Redux
by LittlePippin76
Summary: The idea for this was prompted by someone who suggested that Sick Fic asked a lot of questions; how exactly did John fall from a rooftop? What was Sherlock doing in Southward Cathedral when he took an iron bar to the back of the head? How did Sherlock come to be drowned? This story is going to be a collection of answers to those questions. Mostly (not always) case-based.
1. Broken leg 1

**The idea for this was prompted by someone (I'm really sorry, I can't remember who!) who suggested that Sick Fic asked a lot of questions; how exactly did John fall from a rooftop? What was Sherlock doing in Southward Cathedral when he took an iron bar to the back of the head? How did Sherlock come to be drowned? In short, what happens next?**

**This story is going to be a collection of cases that look at some of those questions. I'm vaguely hoping that the tone and so forth stays true to sick fic, but by nature of these being longer stories, there will be more variation.**

Broken leg 1

John settled back on the sofa, paper ready to be spread across his legs, cup full of delicious coffee in his hand, and honeyed toast on the coffee table. He sighed contentedly, reflecting that if it weren't for the god-awful weather, this would be just about the perfect Sunday morning.

He enjoyed it for a good twelve minutes before the front door slammed and the sound of clattering feet rattled up the stairs. He braced himself for the onslaught, and sure enough Sherlock barged through the door and into the room, shaking the rain from his hair and soaking John's newspaper in the process.

'He wasn't in the cemetery,' he announced.

'Watch it! Get a towel and dry your hair properly.'

Sherlock huffed, but did stalk through to the bathroom for a towel. There was the sound of muted conversation, which increased in volume as Sherlock came back into the room. He dropped the towel onto John's armchair.

'So the museum next, yes?' He stood with his hands on his hips, looking expectantly at John.

'What?'

'The museum, of course, like we just discussed.'

'Just discussed what?'

Sherlock threw his head back impatiently before turning on John and then stopping again in surprise.

'What's going on? Why aren't you dressed?'

John sighed and pushed himself up into a sitting position.

'Now look, and by 'look', I actually mean 'listen very carefully to the words I am saying.' I want to be involved on cases, and I'm happy to help you out in whatever capacity I can. All I ask, is that if we're working together on a case, you _bloody well tell me so at some point!_'

'But I told you all about this!'

'When?'

'When we were…' A glazed look appeared in Sherlock's eyes.

'Yes, you see, I've been at home, in bed, all night. You may have thought you were having a conversation, hell, you might even have voiced the words aloud, but, and I'm fairly sure I've mentioned this a couple of times, if I'm not there to hear the words you're saying, then the conversation has _not actually happened_.'

Sherlock looked mildly chastened.

'I mean, you do know that I'm not haunting you?' John said.

'What?'

'I'm not a spectral form following you around. I'm not, as far as I understand it, a figment of your imagination. As such, I need to be present if you're giving me information. Otherwise, from my perspective, you're not giving me any information.'

'Fine, you've made your point.' Sherlock sat huffily down on his armchair. 'What sort of information do you need?'

'Well, for example, that we're _working on a case! _Seriously, Sherlock! I thought you were in bed!'

'Well I wasn't.'

'No, I know that now. You were, apparently, in a cemetery. Why? Has someone hired you?'

'Not as such. It's just something from the newspaper that interested me.'

John looked at the newspaper. The vast majority of it was full of some love scandal involving some MPs.

'No, not today's paper,' Sherlock said. 'It was last year.'

'OK. Do you think you can narrow it down for me?' John picked up his coffee and put his concentrating face on.

'Fine,' Sherlock gave John a look that suggested he thought that John required far more effort than he was duty bound to give. 'Twelve months ago precisely, I noted an article that one of the graves in Wandsworth Cemetery had been disinterred. I noticed particularly because it reminded me that during a previous Easter, or around that sort of time, there had been another exhumation of a grave. I remembered the rough date because the weather had been as charming as is usual in British springtime, and when the grave was found, the coffin was exposed and open, and the corpse inside was covered in several inches of muddy water.'

John did his best not to grimace at this. 'OK.'

'Well, a little further investigation found that there had been seven similar events at seven different cemeteries in London, all of which happened on the 24th April.'

'Right, so what were the similarities?'

'There were none. Just the date.'

'So nothing connecting names or ages of the deceased then?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'Yes, when I said there were no similarities, I meant other than the fact that they were all called Smith and were all twenty seven when they died.'

'Sorry. So if it was a different cemetery each time, and a seemingly random grave, then where did you go last night?'

'Well, as I pointed out, last year our grave-robber was at Wandsworth Cemetery.'

'OK.'

'And the year before that, he was at Margravine Road, and the year before that, Kensal Green and before that, Willesden, and before that, Hampsted…'

'He's moving south!'

'Precisely.'

'So last night you were at, what, Wimbledon Cemetery!'

'I see you follow me.'

'I do.'

'Good, so that's why we have to go to the museum.'

'No, I'm afraid you've lost me again.'

'Seriously, John, I'm prepared to spell some things out for you, but you do need to try to keep up!'

John looked sternly at Sherlock. 'Which museum, and why are we going?'

'British, of course, because each 25th April, there is a break in in the British Museum in their Egyptology department.'

'So you want to give them fair warning?'

'Oh heaven's no; they should have already worked it out for themselves. I want to go there, commit their current layout to memory, and then tomorrow I can work out what they attempted to take, and from that, I can work out why.'

'Right. OK then, let me get dressed.'

'_Finally_. Thank you.'

John shook his head, but he did go up to his room and get dressed pretty sharpish. When he got back downstairs, he discovered Sherlock chewing the last mouthfuls of his toast.

'Did you even put more in for me?' he asked.

Sherlock swallowed. 'More of what?'

'Never mind. Right then, let's go.' He pointedly picked up an apple from the bowl on the coffee table. Sherlock failed to either notice or comment. He just marched out of the door and back down the stairs.

John joined him on the pavement and started looking for a cab. Sherlock took shelter under the awning at Speedy's and was suddenly busy texting or researching on his phone. It took a full five minutes for an empty cab to drive down the road, and by that time, John was thoroughly soaked.

'It's going to be one of those cases,' he said as soon as Sherlock, still glued to his phone screen, joined him.

'What do you mean?'

'One of those immensely frustrating cases where I have little, if any, idea what is going on, and during the length of it, I just get soaked or filthy or hungry or all three.'

'You really didn't need to come.'

'You thought I already had! Apparently you had a whole bloody conversation with me in a cemetery.'

'Oh no, we were suitably quiet in the cemetery. I didn't want to disturb anyone.' He gave John a half smile. 'You really are very helpful to me. Even when you're not actually present.'

'Not all the time.'

'Yes, all the time. I am very grateful for all of your help.'

There was a proper smile now, and though John couldn't help but feel it was almost entirely to make him feel better, he accepted it anyway.

'OK, so what help can I be now?'

'A second set of eyes at the museum would be most helpful. Also, at some point I'll need more information on the inhabitants of the disinterred graves. I have names, addresses, birth and death dates, and I've been letting that all stew around, but so far there is no obvious connection. I don't know anyone like you for finding non-obvious connections. Or at least illuminating the pertinent points.'

'Yeah, all right. You can stop with the flattery now.'

'Good. I was rapidly getting to the part where I point out how spectacularly wrong you usually get it.'

'Thanks. Well I'm glad you stopped then.'

'Yes, it seemed prudent.' Sherlock's phone rang noisily. 'Lestrade,' he said, before answering it. 'Yes…. Where?... Lambeth? Lambeth! Yes, fine, all right.' He hung up and scooted forward to address the driver. 'Change of route; we need to go to Lambeth Cemetery.'

'Lambeth?' John echoed. 'That's south of Wimbledon, isn't it?'

'I would have said so. Unfortunately, our grave-digger disagrees. It is, arguably, to the north and south of Wimbledon, in that it stretches further. I also think he's veered east.' He looked most put out about this.

'Well, anyway,' John said, 'we at least have a crime scene to investigate. That's something, isn't it?'

'It's not as good as having an actual criminal.'

John rubbed his face. 'Any chance I can go back and enjoy my peaceful Sunday morning?'

'No.'

'Fair enough.'

'Did you want the list of grave occupants now or later?'

'Well I can't do much with them right now.' From the look on Sherlock's face, John suspected there was a mammoth sulk just on the horizon. ' Though, if you give me your notebook, I can take the list now, and start the research as and when.'

Sherlock took his Moleskin from his pocket and handed it to John with a pen.

'Right, first year there was Abigail Jeffries, born 2nd April 1964, died 14th May 2005. She was followed by Jennifer Snells, born 4th September 1976, died 20th March 2006. George Lyons the following year, born 15th September 1932, died 9th December 2004, Sarah Dixon, born 7th April 1952, died 12 December 2006, Joseph Collington, born 6th June, 1960, died 17th January 2004, Neil Stephenson, born 2nd March 1934, died 25 April 2006, Joanna Kingston, born 12th May 1923, died 8th November 2004, and the first of all was Adrian Chappel, born 14th November 1945, died 14th March 2003. Let me check your spelling.' John handed the notebook back. 'Stephenson has a 'ph', other than that, it's all correct.' Sherlock held the book back out. 'Your penmanship is terrible.'

John took the book back and looked for himself. 'So, all of the people dug up were buried in the past few years.'

'Yes.'

'Neil Stephenson particularly,' he commented. 'He'd barely been in the ground six months.'

'Yes.' Sherlock's forehead furrowed into a frown.

'What does that mean?' John asked.

'I'm not sure yet. The logical explanation is that something happened in 2003 to trigger the whole thing.'

'Right.' John tore the page from the book, folded it, and put it into his pocket. He gave the rest of the book back, and Sherlock pocketed it.

'Am I right in thinking that you hadn't noticed that until I wrote them all down?' John asked, innocently.

Sherlock's frown deepened, and John left him to his daydreams for the rest of the journey.

oOo

The vast space of Lambeth Cemetery stretched out calmly ahead of them, and it took a moment for John to recognise the police tent as a crime scene rather than just something that goes along with cemeteries. Sherlock charged crossly towards it, muttering about the rain and how it did so mess up a crime scene, so John followed not voicing his current concern that the rain also made you cold and wet.

They nodded at Lestrade and went into the tent. Sherlock pointed at the gravestone at the head of the open hole.

'2007,' he said.

John nodded and noted the rest of the details. Sheila Cook, died 71 years of age, devoted wife, mother and grandmother. For the first time it occurred to him that though Sherlock had given him the basic outlines of the grave scripts, he'd left all of the familial things out. He made a note to go and check whether there were similar notes on the other graves.

Other than that, he stood very still and out of the way and let Sherlock get on with things.

'So then,' Lestrade said, 'how did you know?'

'What?' John asked.

'Him. How did he know that there'd be a grave disturbed in South London?'

'Say what you mean, Inspector,' Sherlock answered.

John looked at Lestrade, who was looking vaguely embarrassed. He didn't say anything though.

Sherlock squatted and used a mini tape-measure to measure a footprint.

'What the good inspector means, John, is 'what can I tell my nosy colleagues when they ask how he knew that there would be a grave disturbed in South London?'' He looked up. 'You can tell them I was paying attention. You'd have been here first if you'd been concentrating properly.'

Lestrade frowned. 'I was here first.'

'Yeah,' John said. 'You were over in Wimbledon.'

'Only because the grave-robber veered east!' Sherlock snapped, and he straightened up. 'We're looking for a man with size 10 feet.'

'Well that narrows it down,' Lestrade muttered.

'It wasn't me,' John said.

Sherlock looked at him up and down until he noted John glaring, and he stopped.

'I was just trying to visual what he might look like based on height and weight…' He trailed off and cleared his throat. 'Have you taken pictures?'

'Yeah, all done,' Greg replied.

'Good. In you get, John.'

'What?'

Sherlock nodded at the grave. 'I need a closer look.'

'You get in then.'

'I obviously can't get in.'

'Well I'm not getting in.'

Sherlock stamped. 'What happened to you wanting to help in exchange for me giving you information? I've kept my end of the agreement!' John stood firm.

'Er, what information did you get?' Greg asked quietly.

'You're a medical man,' Sherlock reasoned. 'You'll see things more readily than the rest of us.'

Sherlock waited. John sighed and stepped towards the grave, trying not to notice Sherlock's triumphant face. He looked down. The edges were quite ragged with shovel marks, and it narrowed towards the bottom. The lid from the coffin hadn't been removed, but it had been smashed through, clearly by someone who didn't want to take the time to fully uncover it. Through the broken, polished wood, John could see a skull with teeth, hair still looking surprisingly strong and showing the colour of black with grey streaked through it. He'd have preferred for the corpse to be a little more skeletal than it currently was. It was far from preserved, that was true, but the bits of clothing he could see were complete and relatively fashionable, and the fact that there were still vaguely ears with earrings still attached was unsettling. He shuddered.

'The quicker you get down there, the quicker you can come up again,' Sherlock said.

John sighed. 'Fine then, give me your hand.'

He wasn't entirely sure what he intended to do with the hand, but he certainly didn't fancy getting down there without being slightly attached to something that was very much out here. Sherlock held his hand out, and John had no more delaying tactics. He took hold of the hand, put the other to the floor, and carefully digging his feet into vague footholds on the sides, made his way down into the grave.

He was very pleased that when his feet touched the coffin, the top of his head was still outside the grave. His eyes were in line with the grass and Sherlock's feet. Sherlock let go of his hand and straightened up.

'What can you see?' he asked.

'Give me some gloves.'

Lestrade appeared in view with a pair of forensic gloves, which he dropped into the hole.

'What can you see?' Sherlock asked again.

'Let's have a look then.' John pulled the gloves on and squatted and found his feet were annoyingly slippery against the slick of the wood and soil beneath them. He leaned and looked into the coffin. 'What should I be looking for?'

'Anything peculiar.'

'Well, I'm in a grave, looking at a smashed up coffin with a woman in it. That certainly doesn't happen every day.'

'More's the pity.'

'What?'

'Well, then you'd be more able to help.'

John looked in. His clothes were already well muddied now, so he gave up and knelt to get a better look.

'Well, she's been moved. I think.' He looked up at Sherlock who was looking in on him. 'I think it's more than what you'd expect by the coffin being carried and lowered anyhow. She's sort of… pushed. I mean, it could be poor handling of the coffin, but it would have to be pretty damned poor.'

'Fine, she was moved. What else.'

'Hold your horses. Well, I obviously can't diagnose her with anything.'

'Other than her being dead,' Lestrade chipped in.

'Well yeah, that hadn't actually escaped me. I mean, I can't say if there was anything particular that was relevant to her death.'

'Well we'll obviously have to autopsy her,' Sherlock said.

'Will we?' Greg asked.

John stood up and looked up at them. 'What is the usual procedure with this sort of thing anyway? Do you just…' he mimed shoveling.

'Well, no, we've got to be a bit careful. We'll let the family know that there's been a disturbance and put the body into a new coffin, and then we'll replace it properly. You know, in a dignified fashion, and respectfully.'

'Hm.' John frowned. 'So you'll avoid telling them that there was an ex-army-doctor literally dancing on her coffin for a bit.'

'Not literally,' Sherlock said. John looked at him. 'Well you're not dancing yet, and I don't suggest you start now. Look, if you're getting her out anyway, why not autopsy her?'

'Why though?' Lestrade asked.

'Because if something was missed, something medically relevant that connects her to the other corpses, then we'll need to know.'

'But not all of the other corpses were autopsied before burial. Some were, some weren't.'

'Then you'll have to dig them up to do them now!'

'Now wait a second, we can't do that…'

'Yeah,' John agreed. 'I'm with…' he turned to face Sherlock, and as he did so, the ground beneath his feet groaned ominously. 'Er…'

Sherlock squatted and looked down. 'Move that mud. How long does that crack extend?' Sherlock asked, pointing to the left side of the coffin.

'No, you pull me out of here.' John grabbed onto Sherlock's wrists, but he was shaken off.

'You're there now! We can't leave it half done just because you're getting unnerved.'

'Fine, you get down here then.'

'Don't be ridiculous; it clearly won't take both of our weights. Just move the mud.' Sherlock looked earnestly at John and blinked a lot. 'Please.'

John shook his head. Very gingerly, he moved the mud from the side of the coffin with the side of his shoe. The crack extended beyond half way down the coffin, and was a good three inches wide at points.

'Well, I'm glad I didn't see that before I got down here,' John commented.

'It's clearly taking your weight. Have a closer look.'

John carefully squatted again, and looked at the side of the coffin. It was clear quite quickly that the person had worked their way inside and moved the woman's left arm. John quite quickly found the hand, and he moved it very carefully.

'He's been at the hand. It's been pulled about.'

'Are you sure?'

'Pretty sure. Most of it's intact, but a digit's been pulled free.'

'Oh, Christ!' Lestrade said, and he paled and moved away.

'Is there any jewellery?' Sherlock asked.

'Nope. Certainly none I can find.'

'Is the detached digit still there?'

'Yep. Her ring finger, but no ring on it.' John stood up and looked at Sherlock. 'Anything else, you'll have to wait for her to be out the hole. OK?'

Sherlock looked as though it was some distance from 'OK', but he nodded anyway.

'Good,' John said. 'Right, help me out.'

'You're all muddy. Can't you just pull yourself up?'

John glared. He did start to pull himself out though. Lestrade returned to hook a hand under his armpit, but the grass was slick and he lost his footing. He let go rather than be pulled into the hole, and John slid and tumbled down again, landing back on the coffin lid, which gave a resounding crack.

'Oh, shit,' John said, and he started scrambling up again, clawing at the grass and soil to get a purchase.

Sherlock did finally join in, and he and Lestrade together pulled him from the grave. The sudden movement caused the three of them to tumble down together, right on top of the next grave over.

'Well, this is dignified,' John said.

'You're covering me with dirt,' Sherlock replied.

'But you're out the grave, so that's a good thing,' Lestrade added.


	2. Broken leg 2

'Right,' Lestrade stood up and started brushing himself down. 'I'll get on with getting the coffin removed, and I'll have her sent to Bart's mortuary as a holding place. If the family want her moved to somewhere more civilised, and if they decline the autopsy, there's nothing much I can do about it though.'

'The mortuary is perfectly civilised!' Sherlock said. He looked at John, who was trying to scrape some of the mud from his coat and in the process was making everything worse. 'I imagine you're going to insist on going home to change before going to the museum.'

'Too bloody right.'

'What museum,' Lestrade asked.

'Oh, we just have a day trip planned, Inspector,' Sherlock replied. 'Text me when you have an answer on the autopsy. Come along, John.'

They managed to find a cab, but only when John hid slightly down the road, and the cabbie thought he was picking up just the respectably dressed Sherlock. There was a certain amount of low level muttering from the front as they drove away.

'Why didn't you tell Greg about the museum?' John asked.

'Oh, his mind needs the exercise. I gave him enough hints for him to find what he needs anyway, if he can be bothered.'

'You didn't say anything other than we were going to a museum.'

'Quiet.'

'OK then.' John squirmed in the seat. 'I literally couldn't be less comfortable than I am now.'

There was no answer to this complaint. Sherlock was staring out of the window, so John gave up and stared out if his.

oOo

John wandered into the living room, rubbing his wet hair with a towel.

'How are you getting on with the list?' Sherlock asked, without looking up from his computer.

'Well, given that I've been in the cab, in a grave, in another cab, and in the shower since you gave it to me, I haven't got very far.'

'I shouldn't have to tell you that it is priority.'

'Well you could have got into the grave, and perhaps I'd have done it then.'

Sherlock didn't reply to this.

'So, is the list now priority over the museum?' John asked. 'Or are we still going there.'

Sherlock sat back and stretched the stiffness out of his arms and neck. 'I don't know. I'm considering just going there tonight rather than in advance. We've broken into sleeping museums before; it's not as though it should pose any difficulties.'

'Well that's fine with me.'

'Yes. You can get on with the list.'

'What are you doing?'

'I'm waiting for Lestrade to contact me regarding the autopsy. The alternative is to just call Ms Hooper and tell her to get on with it.'

'Don't do that.'

'Why?'

'Because it's unfair to use _Doctor_ Hooper just because you know she fancies you, and because the family of Sheila Cook have already been sufficiently traumatised by the disturbing of the grave site. Let them deal with that in their own way, and they're more likely to see reason and agree to what you need.'

'Are you sure? My way seems more likely to end with an autopsy.'

'Just, on this, do as I say. Don't question it, don't fight against it, just accept the fact that this is more my area than yours, and accept it.'

Sherlock looked across the room before shrugging and going back to his computer. John took this as a small victory. He picked up his jacket, spent a little time sighing at the sorry state of it and retrieved the folded notebook page from the pocket. He sat down opposite Sherlock with his laptop and got to work.

It was mid-afternoon when he started glancing across the table at Sherlock. Sherlock was still head-down, staring at his screen. His forehead was furrowed into a stormy cloud, which looked more and more thundery as time went on.

'What is it?' he finally snapped.

'What?'

'Why do you keep looking at me?'

'I didn't know I was.'

'Well you were. Now tell me why.'

'Oh. Well. Er. I _think_ I might have found a connection.'

Sherlock looked up at him. 'What?'

'The thing is, I'm not sure if it's a bit coincidental, or a bit tenuous.'

'What is it?'

'OK, well, I thought that the most sensible place to start would be was with the two older chaps…'

'Why?'

'I just thought that they had most in common.' Sherlock frowned in confusion, but John ploughed on. 'Well they did. They both worked for a company called Caterham Mechanics back in the 1960s.'

'Was there any cross over between them?'

'Well, no. Lyons did an apprentice that ended in 1951 and then he moved on, and Stephenson started there in 1958.' Sherlock sat back in his chair and folded his arms. Not crossly, but with enough scepticism for John to waver. 'Yes, and you see, this is why I'm concerned it's a bit tenuous. But then, I started looking at the other people too. Abigail Jeffries also worked for Caterham Mechanics, but as a temp, so not for the same company, but still in the same building and doing work for them.'

'I understand the concept of temps, John.'

'She covered three times while the usual office secretary was on maternity leave in 1983, 1984 and 1986, each time for seven or eight months, and that makes it a little more than a coincidence perhaps.'

'And the other people?'

'Hang on, I'm just getting there. Like I say, Jeffries was there, but with another firm, and I noticed that the third time she wasn't listed as Caterham Mechanics, but as Catherham-Young's. They were taken over by a larger firm who specialised in calibration. Caterham did calibration too, but started out in general manufacturing, often of smaller parts that would be sent on to larger companies like Rover or Jaguar. But then they merged with Young's, and started specialising in calibration.'

'Is this relevant?'

'Sort of. Basically, the new, merged company used the same building, the staff were kept on, but there were some crossover's happening. Adrien Chappel worked for Young's, so did Abigail Jeffries.'

'But she was a temp.'

'She was a temp in the 80s. For almost all of the 90s, she worked in the Young's side of Caterham Young's.'

'But they'd merged?'

'Sort of. Young's stayed as Young's. Caterham became Caterham Young's.'

'Right, so that's Jeffries, Lyons, Stephenson and Chappel covered. What about Snells.'

'OK, well, this is where it gets a bit more tenuous. Snell's Great-Grandfather was one of the first employees at Caterham Mechanics. That's as close as I can get though.'

'Dixon?'

'I can't find a connection with Dixon at all.'

'Collington?'

'Was the accounts manager at Young's until his death.'

'Kingston?'

'Her husband worked at Caterham's and crossed over with Lyons, Shephenson and Jeffries.'

Sherlock took a long, deep breath, and John recognised the look he got when things were falling into place in his mind. He allowed himself to bask in triumph about this.

'What about today's?' Sherlock asked. 'What about Sheila Cook.'

'This is where it gets even more tenuous.'

'How so?'

Well, Caterham's was wound down and closed back in 2002. The building then lay dormant for a couple of years, and then in 2004, a new company called Fulham Calibration has taken over, and Sheila Cook worked there until she went off sick. She died of cancer in 2005.'

Sherlock's eyes gleamed, and he smiled.

'What's the address?'

'Munster Road, Fulham.'

He shook his head with delight.

'What?' John asked.

'Get dressed. We're going out.'

'Where too?'

'Fulham.'

'Can I have something to eat first?'

'No.'

oOo

The rain had thankfully eased by the time they were back on the pavement at Baker Street. Obviously this made finding a cab an awful lot easier, and they quite quickly bundled into one.

'Munster Road, Fulham please, mate,' John instructed the driver.

'You know that coat makes you look like a scarecrow?' Sherlock said.

'What?'

'What?' Sherlock looked at John.

'You just told me I look like a scarecrow.'

'Oh. Did I? I didn't even realise I was thinking it.'

'Great, so you have conversations you want me to hear when I'm not around, and you say stuff that's not meant for me when I am. That's going to make everything nice and easy.'

Sherlock smiled and sat forward. 'Not Munster road,' he called to the driver. 'We're going to the cemetery.'

'The cemetery?' John echoed. 'But there wasn't even a disturbance at Fulham Cemetery!'

'I know. I should have noticed that before. I didn't until you picked up on Caterham's.'

'It's somehow connected to the engineering firm?'

'No, John. As always, you merely lit the way.'

'OK.'

'You were, of course, wrong.'

'OK.'

'The cemetery at Fulham will give us the answers now.'

'OK. Though you should know that if there's a grave that needs to be got into, you're getting into it.'

'There won't be.'

'But just in case…'

'There won't be.'

'OK, but it is your turn.'

'Fine.'

They continued in silence until they reached the Cemetery. It was a lot smaller than Lambeth, and it was older, and some of the gravestones were barely legible any more. John got out quickly and strolled away, forcing Sherlock to attend to the fare. He wandered along the paths to read some of the inscriptions. The air was still heavy and wet, but it was also still and calm. It felt strange that all of London life was just a few metres away from where he was standing.

'The plot we want is further in,' Sherlock said, walking past him.

John hurried to catch up to him.

'What was it? Was there a death in the factory or something?'

'No, the factory's a red-herring.'

'OK.'

Sherlock led him into the older part of the cemetery and towards a section that was largely reserved for family plots. They made there way to the biggest one of all; a space for twelve separate graves, several of which had large marble statues over them, and in the centre, overshadowing all of the others, was a large marble monolith with engravings on all sides.

'This is the Caterham family plot,' John said.

'Yes.' Sherlock smiled. 'The factory was largely irrelevant but for the fact that the family owned the mechanics and the building in which it was based. Look at the land-register when we get back; even when the company was bought out, the building remained in the possession of the Caterham family. They're a big family from Fulham.'

'So I can see.'

'Yes. They have an interesting history. They branched off from the Caterham Caterhams way back in the seventeenth century and settled here. Half of the buildings you see around here belonged to them at one time or another. They've always stayed close to home, and though I haven't read up on their history in recent years, I do know there were a number of squabbles between them and other rich groups that jostled them for power. Most of the time these were resolved by marriage.' He pointed to one of the smaller grave markers.

'Stephenson Young,' John read. 'So Young's was also owned by the Caterham family?'

'In a sense.' Sherlock sniffed. 'Legally, it's possible Young's got the lion's share, but I suspect when the lawyers had all finished it was too much of a jumble to really tell. Either way, a couple of marriages smoothed over the rest.'

John paced over to another grave. 'This one's a Stephenson. At a guess he's closely related to Stephenson Young. And look here, there's a Emily Dixon listed too!'

'Probably somehow related to our Sarah. You see, the factory was only relevant in the sense that the family put people there when there was nowhere else for them, or to keep it in the family a bit and not let the bloodline water down too much.'

'I see.'

'I'm willing to bet that all of our open graves were related to the Caterham family.'

'Ones who dared to separate off?'

'Perhaps, but it's more likely that the family is just sprawling now and there's no room for the outskirters here.'

'So why are they being dug up?'

'That, I think, is likely to lead us back to the museum.'

'I'd forgotten all about the museum.'

'I had not.' Sherlock glanced his watch. 'We've all but missed opening hours now. We'll go up in a few hours and just wait, I think.'

'OK then. Home?'

'Yes. Let's double-check our family tree and history. Always good to be tidy with these things.'

oOo

Sherlock's method of double-checking the family tree turned out to be lying on the sofa and staring at the ceiling while John got to work. He did at least manage to sneak two slices of bread into the toaster to tide him over until dinner time.

'By the way,' John said, 'don't tell Greg that I searched the HMRC database for tax data.'

This was answered by a non-committal grunt.

The Caterham family tree was in fact on several different ancestral websites as proud family historians had documented it for all the world to see. There had been some disagreement in some things many centuries back, wherein one strand was certain that their ancestor was the older, rather than the younger brother, but it was clear that that was something that would never be satisfactorily resolved, and it had stopped mattering when a whole strand of family up sticks and moved to South Africa.

He'd typed it all up, and had added a few pertinent facts about Caterham Mechanics and the building in which it was found, when he came across something that almost lifted him from his chair with surprise.

'God!' John said.

'What?'

'You know I said Caterham Youngs closed down in 2002?'

'Mm?'

'Well that was following a pretty nasty industrial accident.'

'Somebody died?'

'No, details here are just of extensive injuries. But you'll never guess what?'

'The date of the accident was 24th April, 2002?'

'Oh. Well yes.'

'It would appear we've found our anniversary.'

'Chap who was injured was called Alexander Cobsen. He was awarded £20,000 in damages. A few months later he took them to court again for constructive dismissal, but the place was already on the way out. Could he be looking for yet more revenge?'

'I don't know.

'Well, whatever his motives, he doesn't sound like the nicest person in the world from all the accounts.'

'Don't forget to take into account reporter bias.'

John sniffed. 'Any time you want to say 'thank you' or anything.'

Sherlock swung his legs down from the sofa and stood up.

'Right, let's go then,' he commanded.

'What, now?'

'Can you suggest a better time?'

'Well, after dinner springs to mind.'

'You're obsessed by your stomach.'

'I'm not. Don't you even want to see what I've done?'

'Not really. Come along, John, you're wasting time.'

With a certain amount of annoyance, John got up to follow Sherlock down the stairs.

oOo

Sherlock was customarily silent while in the cab, clearly not finding it necessary to share any part of his plan. John was used to this by now though, and he just followed Sherlock to the back of the museum where they loitered in the shadows of an alleyway near a fire exit. It started to drizzle again as they were waiting, and John felt his fingers and feet growing steadily more numb, and his mood growing increasingly more sour.

Sherlock pulled him back into the shadows as the door opened, and two men and a woman came out of it, chatting together in a language John didn't speak and couldn't recognise. Sherlock quietly kicked a half-brick into the gap left by the closing door, and the door wedged calmly against it. They waited until the group had rounded the corner, and then Sherlock darted towards the wedged door, and they were in.

They were at the bottom of a stairwell. It was lit, but by dim lighting. There was a cleaning cupboard with the door still ajar under the first flight of stairs. Sherlock went to have a look, and he pulled out a couple of tabards, which the two of them put over their clothing, and they each took a bottle of glass-polish and a duster. They looked slightly peculiar with the tabards over their overcoats, but Sherlock at least seemed satisfied that they'd blend in just enough.

As it was, they didn't encounter a soul as they made their way into the main part of the museum, and then into the Egyptian rooms. Sherlock took his small torch out of his pocket, and John copied him.

'What time do you predict he'll be here?' John asked.

'I suspect he's already here. Like me, he'll have worked out that the easiest time to get in us just an few hours after cleaning. He'll have come in while cleaners are leaving or…'

'Or he came in with them.'

'Precisely.'

'Right. Should we hide.'

'No. Let's just surprise him and have a look around.'

John wandered along the great glass containers and shone his torch on their glittering contents. Sherlock had moved off to another corner of the room, so he kept one ear open for anyone approaching.

As he worked his way along, he noticed something and hissed.

'Here, Sherlock!' Sherlock joined him. 'Look who the generous benefactor is.'

He held the beam of his torch steady over a small, typed label which stated that the contents of this particular box was bequeathed to the museum by Mr Christopher Stephenson Caterham.

Sherlock smiled. 'The younger Caterham brother,' he whispered. 'Mr James Stephenson Caterham liked mechanics, and his younger brother liked archaeology. I don't imagine either one of them would stand up against the scientists of today though.'

His torch beam joined John's as they examined the contents and he illuminated an old photograph for John to examine. It was an old, faded sepia print of two youngish men in dessert gear standing in front of an open Egyptian tomb. John nodded and continued to look at the rest of the antiquities.

There was the sound of a click from the adjacent room and both men stiffened to listen. Their torches went off, and they moved silently away from the box. Sherlock put his hand out to guide John behind another cabinet.

Through the wide archway separating the two rooms came a middle aged man. He looked wiry and spy, and he made his way instantly to the box that Sherlock and John had just left. He put down his bag, and quietly took out some glass cutting tools.

He didn't get much further than that, as Sherlock sprang out towards him.

The man was on edge though, and he simply abandoned his bag and shot off again back through the archway.

Sherlock was straight out after him. John was too, but he tripped and stumbled over the bag. By the time he got through to the next room, the others were gone. He ran on anyway, and sure enough, he caught them up chasing up the main stairwell. He followed fast and shortened the gap.

The man was fast though, and he clearly knew the layout well. He dashed through as security door and slammed it behind him, slowing Sherlock and then John. Suddenly they were in a small access corridor, plain and unpainted, but mercifully straight and well lit. John was a good twenty paces behind Sherlock by now, though he was only half that behind the thief.

He pushed on.

The thief opened a door and disappeared outside, onto an ancient, metal fire escape. By the time John reached it, they were several turns below him. He briefly considered leaping from the side in the hope that he could catch hold of the railing and pull himself back on. Fortunately, common sense kicked in, and he just continued down the stairs.

The thief left the stairwell to get onto the roof of a lower building that ran alongside the museum. Within a minute, John was chasing Sherlock chasing a thief across the rooftops of Bloomsbury. He took a moment to consider how strange his life had become in recent years. Then the cold and damp hit him and he focused on the job in hand.

He was tiring now, and the lack of dinner was beginning to tell on him. His knees were complaining quite bitterly, and as the chase continued, he began to see it as more boring than exciting. He saw Sherlock reach the end of a terrace in front of him, though by now he couldn't see their quarry at all. Sherlock took a giant leap and sailed across the gab between the terrace and the next row over, and he was gone again, coat tails flapping like great bat-wings.

John reached the edge of the terrace himself, and the part of him that was still prepared to put the effort in leapt from the rooftop.

Unfortunately, the part of him that was cold, wet, increasingly pissed off and in need of his dinner tried to put the brakes on sharpish, but only succeeded in distracting rather than stopping. His back foot slipped on the slick ground, and he noticed, to his horror, that the rooftop opposite was a good foot higher than the one he'd just left, and he hadn't adjusted his aim.

He tried now, but it was little more than a flail of his arms. He caught the rooftop, and there was one joyful and optimistic moment as he saw the wall swinging towards him, but it was gone in an instant when he realised that the wall was due to hit him pretty hard.

His face took the bulk of the impact, and he felt his cheekbone and nose smash against them.

At this point, he was desperately into damage control, trying to reduce the impact to his head while trying to find a grip with his loose hand while not losing the one had in the other.

It was no good though. He was too stunned to manage it all, and without really understanding how it all happened, he was suddenly falling.

Again he tried desperately to limit the damage and at least protect his head. He managed, in a fashion, and he hit the ground on his left hand side, his left leg crumpled beneath him, and as the sharp acidic pain shot up from his leg, up his spine, flooding his whole body, he was relatively certain he actually heard the break.

The wind was knocked from him, so he hadn't got the option to yell for Sherlock, assuming that Sherlock was still in hailing distance at this point.

His last thought, as the pain enveloped him, and he slowly lost consciousness, was that Sherlock was bound to notice and would be with him shortly.


	3. Broken leg 3

John wasn't sure how long it was before he was being shaken awake again. Someone seemed quite eager to talk to him. He opened his eyes and focussed on the face he could see. It was being illuminated with a grim blue light that was flashing on and off.

'Who the hell are you?' he asked.

'Hello, mate,' the face replied. 'I'm Alan. Can you tell me your name?'

'Where the fuck's Sherlock?'

'What was that?'

'Oh, no…' The pain was extraordinary, and John watched the dizzying spots fill his vision and he was out cold again.

The next time he opened his eyes, he noticed, in a sort of detached fashion, that he was slightly more comfortable. He was in a warm and dry place for a start, and that made quite a difference, and he was flat on his back on a mostly comfortable bed that was bouncing and swaying along.

'Hello again,' Alan said. 'It'd be really great if you can give me a name.'

'Fucking Sherlock.'

'Your name's Sherlock? What about a surname?'

'No. I'm John Watson. Sherlock's a tit.'

'OK then. How about an address?'

'Er…' John thought. His brain felt suspiciously cloudy and vague, and there was something bothering him. It wasn't his leg anymore. Well, his leg hurt, but he was strangely OK with the pain. It was a good pain, he thought. It was certainly a hell of a lot better than the big burning ball that was spinning inside his stomach.

A few dots connected themselves.

'Oh, shit, you gave me morphine,' he muttered.

'Just a vial,' Alan replied. 'You can have a top up when we reach A and E.

'Can't take morphine,' John said, and as if to demonstrate he threw up copiously.

Alan did his best to get most of it in a bowl, but John had already drenched his top.

'Sorry,' John muttered.

'No, I'm sorry,' Alan replied. 'I didn't realise there was an issue.'

'No. Fucking Sherlock should fucking be here,' John said.

He was too tired and humiliated to manage any further conversation, so he shut his eyes and feigned sleep. He was relatively certain Alan knew precisely what he was doing, but he was a good enough soul to not call him on it.

They made their way to into an Emergency ward that John was fairly sure he recognised but he couldn't quite place.

He was moved, as gently as possibly, onto a bed and had the curtains drawn around him. He stopped trying to fight it and descended into an almighty sulk.

oOo

Meanwhile, several miles away, Sherlock was also descending into a frustrated sulk, and he kicked a convenient puddle of water on the roof he was on.

Alexander Cobsen, he realised now, had a far better geographical knowledge of the rooftops in this particular area, and Sherlock was simultaneously impressed by him, annoyed at the gap in his own knowledge. He was relatively sure that he had known this area better once, and a mean part of his brain blamed John for discouraging him from rooftop escapades. In a more general way, he was also decidedly pissed off that he'd missed his annual chance with this case.

He turned around and noticed that John wasn't with him. He decided not to bother trying the various alleyways and streets for the Cobsen as it was a lost cause by now, but instead to follow John's lead by just getting down and going home.

He sulked during the cab ride, stropped while paying the fare and stomped over the pavement and in through his front door.

'John!' he bellowed, running upstairs.

There was no sign of John. He checked the bathroom, and, finding it empty, he thought he'd take the opportunity to clean and warm himself in the shower. He took a good ten minutes over this task, and then he went to change into pyjamas. He contemplated getting himself something to eat, checked his phone for messages from Lestrade, and, finding none, he decided that there was going to be no further immediate action, and he might as well get a few hours sleep.

oOo

John woke early. To be fair, he hadn't really been properly asleep in the first place. It was just that every now and again his body completely gave out entierly and allowed him to have a few minutes of unconsciousness. Most of the time, however the howling, gripping, choking pain largely put paid to any hope of proper, restorative sleep.

He was interrupted regularly through the night too. Nurses to check people and give out pain medication, doctors to come and have a look at various patients. He had to have three different arguments to prevent having more morphine injected into him. The man with chest pains in the next bed started to get increasingly huffy about this, until he finally just broke and told John to 'take the ruddy stuff! Nobody cares!'

Finally, at about 8AM, a outrageously chirpy orthopaedist turned up to brightly tell him that he'd checked his x-ray, and he'd decided on surgery this morning. He thought he'd done enough to snag the first available operating theatre this week, so they were going to go ahead and prep him.

He was stripped of the standard hospital gown and redressed in a thinner gown and paper pants, which caused further excruciating pain and extra humiliation. He then lay there, all prepared, for another ninety minutes.

He was finally wheeled down to a nice, clean anaesthetic room, and a delightful and careful woman put something into his cannula, which finally brought about the sweet relief of oblivion.

oOo

Sherlock woke late. He went from soundly asleep to wide-awake without passing any of the usual stages between, and with a plan, fully formed in his mind. He vaulted out of bed and charged through to the kitchen.

'I was thinking about this damned autopsy,' he called. 'There's no point to it now; you're probably right, Sheila Cook did die of cancer. But I might put the word about that we're planning the autopsy anyway. See if that little piece of news flushes anything out.'

He returned to the kitchen where he put a hand on the kettle. Finding it cold, he filled it and turned it on.

'I'm not prepared to wait for another full year though. We know Cobsen's in London.'

The kettle clicked off and he looked around the kitchen, wondering why John hadn't bothered to put a cup out for him. He finished making his coffee with a small frown haunting his face.

'It might be worth you checking if he's booked any flights or train tickets though, just in case he intends to slip away. If he does, then let's at least learn about his habits.' He went back through to his room and gathered a sketch-pad and several pencils, which he took back to the kitchen table. He opened it and started to sketch out the contents of the cabinet that he and John had examined in the British Museum.

He was very pleased that John was so willing to work in complete silence so that he could maximise his own memory.

About two hours later, from somewhere in the region of the living room table, Sherlock's phone beeped.

'Can you get my phone?' he called.

Silence echoed through the flat. Sherlock looked up.

'I said, can you please get my phone? Or better still, read me that text? It's probably just Lestrade.'

Further silence. He muttered about stupid social niceties under his breath and pushed himself up from the chair to stamp into the living room. 'I said, can you…' He noted the lack of occupant on the sofa. 'John?' There was no answer. He raised his voice to a bellow. 'John!'

He heard the sound of Mrs Hudson coming up the stairs.

'Where's John?' he called, as soon as she was in his line of sight.

'I don't know, love. Is he not with you?'

'If he were with me, I wouldn't be asking you. Did you hear him come in last night?'

'I don't remember. I heard you come in though. I do wish you wouldn't shout up the stairs when you come in late.'

The phone beeped again, and Sherlock retrieved it from the table. He scrolled past the various texts from Lestrade and opened one from Mycroft.

'_Are you missing something?'_

He opened a reply text, but closed it and dialled instead. He was diverted straight to Mycroft's voicemail, which infuriated him further, and as soon as the beep sounded, he thundered through gritted teeth; _'Where is he?'_

oOo

John was in a small room of four occupants when he woke up again. The rain was still coming down in sheets outside, but he celebrated the fact that he could at least see outside now. He could also identify his whereabouts as UCH, which, he considered, was at least handy for the flat.

Not that that would do him much good. He noted, tiredly, that his leg was now in a plaster cast that extended from his toes all the way up to his thigh, and he wasn't in a particularly fit state to go anywhere at all. His stomach ached with a heady mix of nausea and hunger, and while he wanted to be all mature and calm about things, he was hugely pissed off that Sherlock was still nowhere to be seen.

He went so far as to hope he'd fallen off a bloody building too.

His mood wasn't helped by the fact that he'd missed breakfast while he was prepped and lunch when he was in surgery, and the sandwich he'd begged from a nurse was soggy and had far too much mustard in it. His stomach had rebelled after just two bites.

He was beginning to long for what he knew would be a disappointing dinner, when Sherlock finally burst through the doors with a face like thunder.

John's face reconfigured itself into a grim look. He bit down on his cheek, hoping that he wouldn't accidentally make a scene and disturb the other patients.

'Where did you go?' Sherlock demanded, charging towards his bed.

John raised an eyebrow. 'Down, mostly.'

'It's taken me an age to find you!'

'Well I'm very sorry for causing you inconvenience. I can assure you, it won't happen again.'

'Good!' Sherlock's face changed as it caught up with his brain. 'No, wait; are you saying that you won't work with me anymore?'

'Yes. I am.'

Sherlock stood back, and he took on the demeanour of a man who was rapidly recalculating. His eyes travelled the length of John's bed, taking in his various injuries.

'Are you badly hurt?' he asked.

'It depends what your criteria is. I'll live.' John found, and he realised this with annoyance, that along with the anger, he was feeling a surprising amount of hurt. He realised that he was in slight danger of weeping, and he tried to get a grip on this.

'Is there anything you need?' Sherlock asked.

'Nope.'

'How long do you have to be here?'

'Don't know.'

Sherlock considered further. 'I'm sorry,' he said.

'Jesus!' John snapped. 'For God's sake, Sherlock, I can vaguely understand your brain is too damned busy to notice whether I'm in the room when you're having a conversation with me, but to not even notice when I've fallen from a bloody building! It's…' Tears threatened, so he stopped talking and took a deep breath.

Sherlock cocked his head. 'Logically, it's harder to notice when you've dropped off from a chase than to notice you in a room, given that you are usually behind me when...' Sherlock stopped under the weight of John's glare. 'Which would clearly only be relevant if this were a situation that required logic, which it isn't. I'm really very sorry, John.'

Two teardrops slid down John's temples. John looked furious about this.

'I'm _very_ sorry,' Sherlock said, becoming increasingly alarmed. 'Really.'

John swiped the tears away. 'Well anyway, it's done now.'

'Yes. Is there anything you need? Can I bring anything here to make you a bit more comfortable?'

'You're working, aren't you?'

'I can prioritise this.' Sherlock was quite obviously doubtful as to whether this was the actual truth, but he nodded encouragingly at John.

'I could do with my wash bag. There's one in my rucksack by my bed. In fact, bring the whole rucksack. If you can possibly find some edible food as well, that would be fantastic. So far what they've served here leaves a lot to be desired.'

'OK.' Sherlock hesitated. 'Is it acceptable for me to ask Mrs Hudson to help with the food?'

'Desirable, in fact.'

'Good. It's one thing to mess up a friendship by being inattentive; it'd be quite another to actually poison you.'

John snorted and wiped his face again.

Sherlock sagged very slightly, and he carefully perched on the bed. 'Is the face superficial?'

'Yep. Not even a proper concussion. The leg's the problem.'

'How bad is the break?'

'Annoyingly bad. Two snaps to the fibula, one to the tibia and one to the femur. The good news is that the femur was a clean break and I don't need to be in traction. The less good news is that I can't leave until I can take my weight on the cast and demonstrate that I'm competent with crutches. Plus, I have no idea how I'd get up into the flat, so I might be here for the long run.'

'How long would that run be?'

'Six to eight weeks maybe.'

Sherlock inhaled sharply. 'That's a long time.'

'Yeah. Well they've put a plate on the femur, and pins in the tibia, so hopefully that'll do the trick and they'll all heal up nicely.'

'You've had _surgery?_'

'Yes. I've been here fourteen hours.'

'Sorry.'

'Yes.'

Sherlock bit his lips. 'I think I forgot to say thank you for all your help with the family trees.'

John remained silent.

'I mean really, it was clever going for the tax records. I never think about tax records because I don't pay taxes.'

'Yes you do.'

'Do I? I thought you have to be employed.'

John sighed. 'Mycroft and I do them between us.'

'Do you? Oh. Thank you.'

'Yeah, well sometimes I don't want to see you imprisoned.' John moved slightly and moaned. 'Jesus this is getting worse by the second.'

'What have you taken for it? Can't you have more?'

John shook his head. 'I'm still waiting for someone from the pain clinic to come around. I'm sorry for being so grumpy. The anaesthetic is beginning to wear off, and I've had no sleep that wasn't from the GA, and people keep trying to push bloody morphine at me, and I'm don't want it, and I'm grumpy because it bloody hurts.' His breath caught, and tears threatened again. Sherlock nodded, sympathetically. 'And of course, because my best friend failed to notice when I fell from a rooftop and broke my leg in four places.'

'I really am sorry.'

'Yeah.' John wiped his face again. 'How did you find me anyhow?'

'You can blame Mycroft for the delay. He dropped clever little hints but failed to give me solid information. He must have been alerted when you were checked in.'

'Huh.'

'You look tired.'

'No, really?' John snapped, and the look on Sherlock's face added guilt to the many emotions he was feeling. He sighed. 'I think I'm groggy from the surgery. That's the _only_ reason I might have been a bit teary.'

'Of course.' Sherlock hopped from the bed. 'OK. I'll go home and get you those things you wanted. I'll be back in forty-seven minutes. If I'm longer, it's because Mrs Hudson's scolding me.'

John smiled. 'Tell her you need to get back before visiting hours are over, and that you'll return for the scolding later.'

'OK.'

'Go away now and let me sleep.'

'OK.' He stood and looked at John again. 'I really am very sorry, John. I mean, I'm actually feeling the emotion of remorse; I'm not just bending to convention.'

'Heh. Well, thank you for telling me.'

'It's fine.' Sherlock frowned. 'Do you know how long it will last for?'

John settled back into his pillows. 'I don't know. Until you've learned or you've atoned.'

'Oh. Damn. Well, I'll be back later.'

oOo

Sherlock walked into the Baker Street building, and was instantly aware that Mrs Hudson had company. But the time he'd reached her flat door, he'd identified the voice as Lestrade's. He gave his watch a quick check, and knocked on the door. He didn't bother waiting for an answer, but walked in to find Lestrade well supplied with tea and cakes sitting comfortably in Mrs Hudson's best armchair.

'Oh, there he is,' Mrs Hudson chirped. 'You didn't have your phone on. Did you find John?'

'Yes, he's at the hospital.'

This drew concerned looks, and Lestrade was quickly on his feet.

'What happened?' he asked.

'It's not important. Have you news for me?'

'Only that we have the go ahead for the autopsy, but _that's_ not important. What happened to John?'

'He's broken his leg.'

This drew more gasps of dismay.

'How did he do that?' Mrs Hudson asked.

Sherlock hesitated. 'That's _really_ not important.'

'Oh no…' Lestrade said.

'What did you do?' Mrs Hudson asked furiously.

'I didn't do anything! And you have to let me go back there; he's hungry and visiting hours are…'

'Sherlock Holmes, if I find out that you're in any way responsible for John's broken leg, so help me…' She trailed off, clearly too angry to think of a suitable punishment.

'I really didn't do anything. We were chasing…' he glanced at Lestrade. 'We were chasing someone across some rooftops, and John slipped and fell. That was all.'

'Oh the poor bloke,' Lestrade said.

Sherlock ignored him and watched to see if Mrs Hudson would fill in the blanks.

'He's very hungry,' he said.

'I'll pack a bag for him.'

Sherlock exhaled. 'Thank you. I'm just grabbing some bits and then I'm going straight back out.' He turned to leave.

Before he got to the door, Mrs Hudson called after him.

'When did this happen?'

Sherlock hesitated again. 'Last night.'

There was pure fury on Mrs Hudson's face now. 'We'll discuss this further later on. Go and get the bag ready.'

Lestrade followed him up to the flat, though he waited in the living room while Sherlock retrieved John's overnight bag. He trotted back downstairs and dropped it on the sofa before going to the kitchen to retrieve his sketch pad.

'So, who were you chasing?' Lestrade asked.

'There was a break-in at the British Museum last night.'

'Right.' There was a short pause. 'Are you sure there weren't two break-ins last night?'

This was met by silence. Sherlock continued to select various bits and pieces to put into the bag.

'Do you want a lift to the hospital?' Lestrade asked.

'Please.'

'Shall I take you straight on to Bart's then to watch Molly work? Or do you need to come back here for a break.'

'A break? Why would I need a break?'

'Haven't you been at the hospital all night?'

The temperature in the room seemed to drop by several degrees. Lestrade watched Sherlock move around busily while clearly not actually doing anything.

'Sherlock, why is Mrs Hudson so furious with you?'

Sherlock turned on his heel and went to be pointlessly busy in his bedroom. He didn't emerge again until Mrs Hudson started coming up the stairs.

He met her in the kitchen where she handed him a carrier bag full of goodies.

'Thank you, Mrs Hudson.'

'It's no trouble, Sherlock. You tell John to have a good rest while he can, and I'll be in to see him tomorrow. I'll replenish his supplies then.'

'Thank you, Mrs Hudson.'

'And I'll talk to you later.' She turned to walk away.

'Mrs Hudson,' Sherlock said. She stopped and looked at him with disappointment written all over her face. Sherlock glanced at Lestrade who continued to be annoyingly present, and he looked back to Mrs Hudson. 'Thank you,' he said, and she softened slightly.

'OK Sherlock. You get on now.'

oOo

Lestrade was mercifully quiet in the car, and Sherlock sat in the passenger seat, stroking his lips and trying to work out how to put together these particularly complex and unusually shaped pieces.

'Which do you think will be easier,' he asked eventually. 'To move the corpse to UCH, or to move John to Bart's?'

'Why do you want to move either?'

'Because I can't be in two places at once.'

'Right. Well you can't move the corpse.'

'Why not?'

'Because the woman's sister is already in pieces over it. She wants her back in the ground where she should be; not shipped around London at the whim of a consulting detective.'

'Well she's being extremely selfish. The corpse will be easy to move, and won't care where she is. Moving John should be possible, but only if I ask for Mycroft's help, and even then it will be complicated and possibly uncomfortable for him.'

'Well, John's your problem.'

'He's not a _problem!_'

'Really? Well you know best.'

Sherlock huffed. 'I'm sure he'll see the sense in moving.'

'Like I say, you know best.'

oOo

Sherlock was fully committed to his new plan, and it was with a slight bounce that he charged onto John's ward. He started slowing as he approached the bed.

John was so pale he was almost grey, and there was the sheen of sweat across his face.

'Has the pain person not been around yet?'

'She did. We had a short exchange of views.' He wiped his forehead. 'Did you bring my bag?'

'Yes, and Mrs Hudson sends her love, of course, and some food.'

John grimaced. 'I don't want it now.'

'They haven't given you morphine, have they?'

'No.'

'Good, because morphine makes you sick.'

'Yes, thanks, Sherlock. The time for that input was at midnight last night, and in Bloomsbury.'

'Sorry. So what have they given you?'

'We compromised on codeine. Well, she's instructed the nurses to give me codeine, but I can't have it until I've eaten something.'

'Codeine makes you sick too. Then again, I'm pretty sure I've known you to vomit after paracetamol on at least one occasion. Really, I've never known a grown man with such little tolerance for pain medication.'

'Thanks once again.'

'Well you might as well take the morphine and at least have less pain. Surely a little bit of vomiting is better than all this pain, which is making you nauseous anyway.'

'I see you're on her side.'

Sherlock thought better than to continue this particular conversation.

John closed his eyes and took several long, slow breaths. Sherlock stood still and just watched him for a while. When John finally opened his eyes again, Sherlock was still gazing at him.

'Are you intending to just stand there gawping all afternoon?' John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. 'All the indications are that I should be here.'

John gave him a wan smile. 'You don't have to be.'

There was a moment of hesitation before Sherlock shook his head. 'No, I want to be here. Honestly; seeing you in a hospital bed is my greatest desire right now.'

John frowned.

'It's possible that could be misinterpreted,' Sherlock admitted. 'Oh! I know. Here…' He took his sketchpad out of the bag, flicked through a few pages, and handed it across to John.

John frowned as he took it, but he gave the picture quite a long look.

'You know, this is definitely one of the more unusual get well cards I've ever seen.'

Sherlock strode forward and took the pad back.

'It's the display from the museum.'

'Yes, I recognised it.'

'I thought we could try to work out what he was after.'

'Why?'

'Well, you're in pain, and you're too stubborn to take anything for it, so I thought this would be a good distraction.'

'A distraction from the pain of a leg that's broken in four places.'

'Well you could take the medication.'

'Not until I've eaten.'

'You could eat.'

John sighed deeply and closed his eyes again. Sherlock put the pad on the bedside cabinet and waited.

'OK,' John said eventually. 'Can you see if you can work out how to sit the bed up a bit?'

'Er, OK.' He located a remote control, which had symbols for a light, a nurse, and a variously angled bed. 'It looks complicated. You'd better do it.'

'It's four buttons.' John took the control anyway, and pressed the button to raise the head of the bed. It slowly eased upwards. He hadn't got far when he yelped in pain and stopped it again.

'Jesus, fuck this hurts!'

Sherlock gripped his shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting fashion. 'Maybe don't try to move anymore.'

'Yeah. Once again, your input this afternoon has been _brilliant._'

'Sorry.'

John calmed his breathing and eventually opened his eyes again. He looked around the room from his new vantage point.

'Let's have this picture back then.' He looked at it briefly before putting it aside again. 'What are my food options?'

'Let's see…' Sherlock went for the second bag and started placing items on the bed-tray across John's bed. 'Two packs of sandwiches, three apples, three bananas, a whole packet of ginger nuts, one of rich tea, one of plain water crackers, and a packet of crisps.' He looked at John. 'It's not her shopping day until tomorrow, and I didn't give her much time.'

'It's fine. She's an absolute saint.'

'And there's a thermos full of tea. Or I suspect it's tea.'

'Oh, God, tea! Give me that! Oh, Mrs Hudson is the angel of angels. Queen of all landladies!' Sherlock poured him a cup full and he sipped at it. 'Oh, that's nectar. That's literally the best thing I've ever consumed.' He finished the cup. 'I think I could manage a ginger biscuit now.'

Sherlock opened the packet and gave him one. John ate that and two more, and called for the nurse.

'I've eaten,' he announced. 'Any chance I can have the pain pills now?'

'What have you eaten? We haven't done dinner yet.'

'I ordered in.' He nodded at the mountain of food in front of him.

'Fair enough. I'll go and sort that out.' She disappeared again.

'I'm probably going to have to apologise to the staff a bit,' John said.

'This short exchange of views was a bit enthusiastic was it?' Sherlock asked.

'Mm. And a bit sweary.'

'_John!_'

'I've broken my leg in four places. I get a let. Now, what's your plan? What do you want me to do with this picture?'

'Nothing really. I just thought it might be an interesting distraction.'

'What about the autopsy? Has that been agreed?'

'Yes. I'm not sure it's worth bothering with though. I don't know. What I really want is a way to lure the grave robber _here_. I had thought that the autopsy might do that, but Lestrade's refusing to move the body. He says it stays at Bart's until it goes back in the ground.'

'Why don't you just go there?'

'You're here.'

'Well I will be for a few weeks, Sherlock. I know you're trying to make up for last night, but really, you can't stay here in this room for however long I'm here. You have to work.' He started peeling a banana.

'No, there's no rush.' He reached over John for the pad and looked at the picture again. 'My working hypothesis is that he's after something related to the collection, or to Caterham's family assets.'

'Could he be after the photo?'

'I shouldn't think so. Photos are easy to reproduce.'

'It's what I'd take.'

'Well you don't have the mind of a master criminal.'

'What would you go for then?'

'The earrings. And don't think I missed that subtle dig.'

'But the earrings were left on the most recent corpse.'

'Well yes, the earrings he wants are in the cabinet. Say, for example, a couple of young, rich archaeologists went digging around in Egypt, and they found something big. They shipped it all back to London, and in a fit of generosity, they gave part of it to the British Museum, but other parts they kept. Certainly some smaller items might have been passed down to their children and other relatives and passed on and on.'

'So whomever this chap is, is trying to gather it all back up again?'

'Like I say, it's just a hypothesis. What we need to do next is to work out exactly was brought over with the Caterhams from Egypt, and from there we can highlight the pieces that are still missing. I thought you could…' He pulled John's laptop out of the bag and glanced around the ward. 'This place is set up for wifi, isn't it?'

John cleared his throat.

'What?' Sherlock asked.

'Another distraction?'

'You don't have to, of course. I just thought…'

'It was a nice thought.'

'Really?'

'Yes. I think in your very strange and twisted way, this was meant kindly. Put the computer on the tray and I'll have a look later if I can. Ah! Medication.' The nurse came back and put a little pot of pills on the table. She poured John a glass of water too, and waited while he dutifully swallowed them. He nestled back on the pillow. 'Thinking about it, if you really wanted the autopsy here, you could just book an autopsy here.'

Sherlock frowned. 'I'd like to, but Lestrade's refusing to move the body.'

'I know, you told me, and I was present when you were speaking that time. And I'm saying you could book an autopsy downstairs, and you could arrange for a private ambulance from Bart's to here. You could even call Doctor Hooper and see if she'd pop over for a while this evening. Make sure she puts it in her diary.'

Sherlock's face cleared. 'John, you're a genius!'

'I've often thought so.'

'That really is… that's so beautifully simple I'd never have thought about it.'

'Good.' He moaned very quietly. 'Now you really need to go and find something else to entertain you.'

'I'm happy to stay here with you.'

'Well, with any luck at all, I'll be asleep in about half an hour. I'm pretty sure I am due a bit of good luck now.'

'I would think so. You will call if you need anything though?'

'I will.' John yawned widely. 'You know, you don't actually have to lure a grave-robber to my bedside. If the whole thing's easier at Bart's, then do it there and report back afterwards. For now, give me the thing to lower the bed again.' He descended with the bare minimum of whispered curses, and he closed his eyes.

Sherlock waited just long enough to be sure that John wasn't going to open his eyes, and then he left.

John opened his eyes to watch him go.


	4. Broken leg 4

John woke up gagging and choking, and he was grateful for the strong hands helping him up so he could vomit into a convenient cardboard bowl. He was lowered gently down again where he lay panting for a while.

'What do I do with this now?' Sherlock asked him.

John opened his eyes to find Sherlock sitting on a visitor's chair, looking at the bowl full of sick.

'Well don't _look_ at it,' he said. 'Is there a yellow bin somewhere around?'

'Yes.'

'Throw it in there.'

Sherlock stayed where he was. 'Really? Seems a bit of a waste.'

John looked tiredly at him. 'Sherlock, this is one of those things you need to take on board, and it's something that's not going to change during the whole of our lives; you are not allowed to experiment on my vomit. Now stop looking at it and throw it away.'

'Fine. But it would be useful.'

'_Throw it away_.'

'Fine!' Sherlock did so, and he came back and picked up John's computer which was open and on.

John frowned at him. 'What day is it?'

'It's still Monday.'

'God, really? How long was I asleep?'

'Not quite two hours.'

'Oh. I thought you were going off to Bart's.'

'No. I just went downstairs to inform Lestrade of your plan.'

'Oh. Is there another bowl somewhere about?'

Sherlock looked up. 'What, you need another?'

John took a deep breath. 'I'd like one close. Also some water if you'd like to make yourself useful.'

'I am being useful; I'm researching the Egyptian haul because you were…'

John coughed a deep, stomachy cough, and Sherlock shot out of his chair. He only went to the other side of the room where there were some shelves with a stack of emesis bowls, but he still moved impressively fast.

'Here,' he held the bowl out towards John and looked expectantly at him.

John simply took it in his hand and put it on the bed in easy reach.

'Thank you. Could you grab a box of tissues too? And the water.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Did you do that deliberately?'

John gave him a half smile and closed his eyes. Sherlock dutifully fetched the necessary supplies. He even lifted John's head so he could drink some water.

John blew his nose and gave Sherlock something of a look.

'You really don't have to be here, you know.'

'It's fine. I'm happy to be here.' He sat back down and picked the computer up again.

John narrowed his eyes at him. 'Is it possible you're hiding from Mrs Hudson?'

'No. I'm perfectly happy to go home, but I need to be here.'

'I really am fine with the nurses, Sherlock…'

'No, I mean, this is my position now. Lestrade's covering the evidence locker in case our thief goes there to access the broken coffin, Molly's at Bart's in case he tries to get there before the body's moved, or if he doesn't believe our subterfuge, and I'm here in case he does. So tough luck; I have to stay.'

'What will you do when visiting hours end.'

'I'm sure if I make myself useful, nobody will mind if I stay.'

'I might mind.'

'Why would you mind?'

John didn't answer. Instead he coughed again and rolled to throw up some more. He interspersed the vomiting with a fair amount of swearing. Sherlock stood up again and lingered.

'The thing is,' John said, resting back again, 'this is really quite embarrassing. If you were to go home and just pick me up in two months, then that really would be fine.'

'You'd be bored.'

John grunted and screwed his eyes shut.

'Is the pain at least better?' Sherlock asked.

'A bit until I moved just then. Now it's not.' He wiped his forehead and then his eyes from which there were two tears escaping. 'Seriously, Sherlock, I'm fine. Go home.' He wiped his eyes again.

Sherlock threw the bowl away and replaced it. John kept his eyes shut.

'Are you pretending to sleep?' Sherlock asked.

'For the love of God, Sherlock, _please_ go home?' He wiped more tears away.

'Are you all right?'

John actually laughed slightly. 'No, I'm not. I'm exhausted, I'm in pain, and I'm nauseous. Oh, and I can't stop crying right now, which just completes my humiliation. _Please_, go home, Sherlock. I think this might be just about bearable if I didn't have to worry about upsetting you.'

'You're not upsetting me. I still think you might as well take the morphine, but the fact that you won't doesn't bother me.'

John kept his eyes closed, but he continued weeping quietly and wiping his face.

Sherlock watched for a while. 'OK,' he said eventually. 'What do you need me to do for you before I go?'

'Nothing. A supply of bowls will be enough. And pull the curtain around the bed.'

'OK. And what shall I bring tomorrow?'

'I don't know.'

'OK.' Sherlock gave him one last look. 'I'll think of something nice.' He gathered up his coat and left him alone.

oOo

Lestrade looked up as Sherlock stormed into his office.

'Why are you here? You said you'd be at the evidence locker.'

'It's two floors away. I'm hardly miles away. What about you? You said you'd be at UCH.'

'Well I'm not.'

'You left John alone?'

'He told me to.' Sherlock threw himself down on the chair opposite Lestrade's desk. 'It's all ridiculous anyway. If Cobsen follows his previous pattern, we had just two nights to catch him and we messed up both of them.'

'Well not 'we'. I mean, if you'd have perhaps told me a bit about it, there might have been a couple more police resources at your disposal.'

Sherlock scowled some more. 'All of these demands from people that that I tell them things…'

'Well it is kind of handy. The rest of us can't read minds. How's John?'

'Fine.'

'Well that's good then.' He watched Sherlock glower for a while. 'Well, you can't hide from Mrs Hudson forever.'

'I'm not hiding!'

'Well, Mick downstairs is on full alert, ready to tell me if anything happens, and I'll tell you immediately. Off you go home now.'

Sherlock glared at him.

'When did you last eat?' Lestrade asked.

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

'Well John's indisposed,' Lestrade said. 'I'm sure if he was about, he'd be nagging you about eating. So go home. Or go and see Molly and the corpse if you must.'

Sherlock sat up. 'Can I see the coffin?'

'Knock yourself out. Just be somewhere else.' Lestrade turned back to his computer screen.

'Yes, that seems to be the general consensus. On both parts.' Sherlock left.

oOo

The coffin proved distinctly disappointing. It had been cleared of everything vaguely relevant, leaving nothing but a satin cushion on the bottom and sides, stained with soil, so Sherlock got into a cab and made his way over to Bart's. He found, at last, someone who didn't actively want him elsewhere, but this didn't sooth him much.

'How's John?' Molly asked. 'Greg said he was hurt.'

'He's fine.'

'No, I mean really. What are his injuries?'

'He's got a cracked cheekbone, and four fractures to various bones in his leg, the worst of which have been pinned and plated.'

'Poor John. Are they managing his pain medication well?'

'No. I want to see the corpse.'

'I wasn't going to do an autopsy. In fact, I thought the plan was that I'd come to UCH to pretend to do it there. I was going to pop in and see John.'

'He doesn't want visitors. Can I see Ms Cook's personal effects?'

'What?'

'Her jewellery specifically.'

'Er, yeah. Hang on.' Molly went to retrieve a clearly labelled box from which she took several clear plastic bags.

Sherlock held them up to the light. There were a pair of gold earrings, dropped but not overly big, and a thin gold necklace with a pendent that matched.

'No,' he shook his head. 'These are too new.' He dropped them down again. 'She must have had the ring.'

'Yes, I thought so too. There's a mark on the severed digit.'

He looked at her. 'Then I don't imagine he'll come back for her at all. I wish John had told me that in the first place.'

'Well he was probably a bit distracted.'

'Damn it, he _did_ say. He was ambiguous but, _damn it!_' He paced off.

'OK.' Molly gathered up the jewellery and put it back in the box. 'Listen, do you think you should eat something maybe? If you wanted me to go to dinner with you, then I'm perfectly happy to…'

'No. I'd better go and face the music.' He marched out of the door.

oOo

Sherlock stood outside Mrs Hudson's door for a long while before he finally knocked. She opened the door instantly.

'I wondered how long you were going to stand there.' He followed her into her kitchen. 'How's John?'

'Not good. The pain medication isn't managing the pain, and it's making him nauseous.'

'Oh, the poor man. You come in and eat now.' She pushed him gently down onto one of her kitchen chairs.

'I'm really not hungry,' he muttered.

'Eat anyway.' She took a casserole from the oven and spooned a large serving of stew into a bowl. She put it in front of him and cut some slices of bread from a loaf. She put them onto a plate by his hand and sat down opposite him.

Sherlock listlessly pushed some beef around his bowl.

Mrs Hudson waited patiently for him.

'It's all too late now,' he said eventually. 'It's all over until next year. The thief's hardly going to ring on the doorbell now, is he? It's my fault. I got it wrong right at the start. If John had been with me at the cemetery, he'd have started nagging about waiting so long, and I'd have realised that obviously we must be in the wrong place.' He sat back and rested his hands on his head. 'I ended up having an hour-long conversation with a tombstone, which was useless. I needed him to challenge me.'

'Well, I'm sure next time he will.'

'Don't you think I should leave him here next time, where it's safe?'

'No. I just think that brain of yours should work a little harder, that's all.'

'I should have noticed in the museum, you mean? Looking back now, I can see that something was off with him. I've seen him make a jump of that distance some four of five times, but he was sluggish and slow from the onset. I should have noticed that, but I was planning ahead.'

'Well, what you really should have noticed, was that he'd fallen off a building,' she said gently.

Sherlock flushed and shook his head. 'I know.'

'And perhaps that he wasn't home all night.'

'Yes.'

'And perhaps, a bit before that, that he's a human being and not just a thing that's there for your personal benefit.'

Sherlock's chin sunk to his chest, and he pouted.

'He's your friend before he's anything else, Sherlock. You'll do well to remember that.'

'I just…'

'What?'

'I don't know how. None of this, none of it is familiar. I have no instincts in this area.'

'Well, perhaps you should just try to think of what he'd do for you, and then do that. Or something anyway. You need start seeing him in a way that makes him different to everyone else in the world.'

'Why?'

'Because he is different to everyone else in the world. Don't you think so?'

Sherlock nodded slowly. 'He told me to stay away from the hospital until he's ready to come home. Do you think that's something he actually meant?'

'No.'

'That's what I thought. He'd fuss over me every day. He'd talk to the doctors, interfere with the medication, make me keep active…'

'Well hang on…'

They were interrupted by a ring at the door.

'Who on earth could that be at this time?' Mrs Hudson said, getting up.

'No, I'll go.'

'Your dinner!'

'I'll get it later.'

Sherlock marched through to the doorway, feeling vaguely hopeful that he might have something to think about for the next few days, and he opened the door.

'Mr Sherlock Holmes?' the man said.

A short laugh burst out of Sherlock.

It was the thief from the museum.

oOo

Sherlock ran down the stairs with quite a spring in his step and knocked on Mrs Hudson's door.

'Oh, hello, love,' she said. 'You decided you would go in then.'

'Yes, of course, your conversation last night was very helpful. Do you have anything you need me to take?'

'No, I'll go in later myself. You look substantially better now.'

'Yes. Case is all done. I'm saving the finale for John, but the legwork's certainly over now.'

'You're not going to spend the morning talking at him, are you?'

'No, this is much better than that!'

'Good. Wait, do you want to run your plan by me, just in case?'

'No, it's fine. I'm doing exactly as you advised last night.' He kissed her cheek by way of concluding the discussion, and hurried out the door, ignoring any concerned cries coming after him.

oOo

He was the first visitor to arrive. In fact, he was lurking outside of the ward door for a good fifteen minutes before they opened the door. He strode through to the little room and John's bed in the corner.

John was sound asleep, which pleased and annoyed Sherlock in equal measure. A new IV had been put into him, and it was attached to rather a fancy machine that appeared to deliver a measured dose of morphine when John pressed a button that was resting on his bed. Sherlock of course prowled towards it instantly. He was closely examining the delivery button when a nurse snapped at him.

'The patient has to administer himself!'

'Of course, I wasn't…' Sherlock dropped the button back on the bed.

John stirred and opened two sleepy eyes to look at him.

'Good morning,' Sherlock said. 'I'm glad you're awake. I've arranged a treat for you at nine AM exactly.'

John blinked a couple of times and licked his lips.

'Wha?'

'I see you agreed to the morphine in the end.'

John's eyes travelled slowly to the machine. They travelled back to Sherlock.

'Mornin'.'

'How are you feeling?'

'Er… 'K.' A frown appeared on his face and he blinked a little more. 'They gave me some of that stuff. That stuff.'

'Morphine?'

'Stuff you like.'

'Morphine?'

'Yeah, morphine.'

'What about the sickness?'

'Nah, they give… _gave_ me something.'

'What?'

'Er… morphine.'

'Yes, we've established that.'

'Did we?'

'Yes.'

''right then.'

John shut his eyes, and Sherlock watched him for a while.

'Do you think you'll be back to normal by nine?'

There was no answer.

Sherlock sat, fidgeted, paced, searched the internet, popped outside to check his phone a number of times until about quarter to nine, when John started fidgeting and wriggling too. He rubbed at his cast a bit, and finally opened his eyes.

'Oh, hello,' he said, locating Sherlock. 'You came back then.'

'We've already had a conversation this morning.'

'Have we?' John rubbed at his face.

'Yes. For someone who makes such a big deal about being present for conversations…'

'Sorry.' He reached for his morphine button.

'Actually, you might want to be a bit clear headed for a bit.'

John squinted at him. 'Why?'

'Remember how you said I didn't have to lure the grave-robber to your bedside?'

'Vaguely.'

'Well, I did.'

John fixed him in a steady gaze. 'You did what?'

'He said he'd be here at 9:00.'

'What?'

'The grave robber! And the museum thief. You'll never guess the stroke of luck I had yesterday. He actually turned up to hire me!'

'What?'

'He turned up asking for my help. You'll love this; he said he'd read up on me, and he thought that morally, I'd be on his side rather than with the police!'

'Did he?'

'I told him he'd have to come here to convince me!' He grinned broadly. It started to falter slightly as he took in John's expression. 'What. You aren't pleased about this?'

'Sherlock, just yesterday, just twelve hours ago, I made it pretty clear I didn't want anyone here. Even you.'

'Yes, but that was because you were in pain. You just needed a better distraction than I'd provided. Besides, now you've taken the morphine!'

'Oh, God.'

'Mrs Hudson told me it would be fine!'

'She did what?'

'She told me to do for you the sorts of thing that you do for me. When I'm not well, you try to distract me! What could be a better distraction than this?'

'Oh, God.' He reached for the morphine button.

'Are you sure you want to do that right now?'

'I've never wanted to do anything more. Well, ideally I'd like to throw you from the window, but as that's currently not an option…' he pressed the button.

Sherlock pouted. 'I honestly thought you'd be more grateful.'

'When he arrives, apologise for the misunderstanding and take him downstairs to the café, OK?'

'Fine,' Sherlock sulked.

He continued to sulk for another half an hour while John snored gently beside him, and his grave robber failed to turn up. He was beginning to abandon all hope when the smallish, wiry man slunk in through the door.

He gazed around the room, clearly deciding whether or not to make a bolt for it, but Sherlock had already fixed him with his steely eyed stare, so he came in the rest of the way.

Sherlock stood to meet him.

'Thank you for honouring our appointment,' he said.

The thief looked at John. 'Is he OK?'

'He's fine.'

'…. No 'cause the mouse… the mouse… I think it's…' John added.

'Perhaps it would be better if we continued our conversation elsewhere,' Sherlock said.

'Fine. OK,' the man agreed.

'No, but! No!' John called vaguely. Sherlock furrowed his brow. 'Don' leave me 'lone, Sherlock,' John finished.

Sherlock hesitated, and then he gestured to the man to sit in the visitor's chair. The thief looked sceptical again, but he did sit down. Sherlock leaned against John's bed.

John opened his eyes and looked at the man.

''Lo. Who're you?'

The thief looked from him to Sherlock. 'My current name is Alexander Cobsen, however, I prefer my original name; Djedefre of el-Hiba.'

Sherlock's eyes gleamed with humour, but John just looked at him blankly. ''lo. I'm John.'

'I am pleased to meet you. I hoped that your friend might help me to recover some property that was stolen from me.'

'What, Sherrrlock? Yeah, he's good at that.'

'The property that was stolen,' Sherlock said, 'were items of gold and enamel jewellery, is that right?'

'Yes. They belong to my wife, Nekiterty. I intend to gather it all back up again, then go in search of her to re-present them to her.'

'The items you are looking for, they are three sets of earrings, four necklaces, eight rings, and two diadems, is that right?'

'Yes, that is right. I was a rich man, back in el-Hiba, and my family were well respected.'

'El-hiiiiiiiba,' John said. 'Hiiiiiiiiiiiba.'

Sherlock looked at him, but he didn't seem eager to add anything. In fact, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

'Maybe we should take this conversation elsewhere,' Sherlock said again.

'Your friend fell,' Alexander said. 'I remember there were two of you following me, and then just one.'

Sherlock winced. 'Under usual circumstance, John could easily outrun and out jump both of us. He was having a bad day.'

The thief nodded. 'Back in my first incarnation, I was a fat and ungainly man. I'm sure that my current frame was given to me purely to achieve this particular task.'

'Sherlock!' John suddenly called in his sleep. His right hand flailed slightly, so Sherlock took hold of it. He held it gently and John settled down again.

'Tell me, Mr Cobsen…'

'Djedefre, if you please.'

'… how is it you became aware of your previous life?'

'It was eight years ago now. I was working for a time for a mechanic company in Fulham. I had an accident,' he looked at John. 'I fell too. During the time I was unconscious, all my previous memories were unlocked in my brain. I came around several days later, understanding who I truly was, and what my purpose in this world truly is.'

'This same accident resulted in you being paid £20,000 by your employer.'

'It was covered under his insurance,' Alexander said quickly. 'And the value of the property is less relevant than the fact that it was stolen from me, and needs to be returned.'

'And all the burglaries happened on the anniversary of your accident.'

'Which is coincidentally my original birthday. And the anniversary of my wedding to Nekiterti.'

'How convenient. From my records, I can see you have taken two necklaces, and four of the rings.'

'I've _retrieved_ them.'

'Despoiling eight gravesites in order to get them.'

'It is no worse than the indignity suffered by me and my family!'

John opened his eyes. ''Lo. Wait, I know you. You're like… you're a… like a 'gyptian God.' He yawned. 'Or something.'

'I see your friend knows the truth of it,' Alexander said, smiling. 'Indeed my family has divine blood.'

'Yes. My friend can be extremely perceptive at times.'

'Sherlock, I don't feel very well,' John muttered.

Sherlock glanced around. Alexander took his opportunity.

'I don't think you have any intention of helping me at all, Mr. Holmes,' he said, standing up. 'I was wrong to trust you.'

'Good spot,' Sherlock muttered. He was also standing now, but unable to shake of John's grip. John was looking terrified and confused, his eyes wide and unfocussed.

Alexander was effectively trapped between John's bed, and the bed next door, with Sherlock blocking his exit. John started to gag, distracting Sherlock further, and Alexander darted around him. Without letting go of John, Sherlock stuck his leg out hard, kicking Alexander in the shin and tripping him. He sprawled to the floor, the tray from the bed next door flying.

'Hey, watch it!' the patient shouted.

'What on earth is going on in here?' an angry nurse yelled, charging in.

'Is John Watson in this room?' Lestrade asked, following her.

'Oh, John!' Mrs Hudson cried from behind him.

'Ah, Lestrade!' Sherlock said. 'Something on the floor here for you to clear up. Don't worry; it's not from John.'

oOo

John woke up slowly and looked across at Sherlock who was sitting quietly in the visitor's bed, reading the newspaper.

'Good morning,' John said.

Sherlock checked his watch. 'Only just though.' He smiled at him 'Are you OK?'

'Yeah. You'll be pleased to know I finally agreed to the morphine.'

'Yes. So I understand.'

'They also gave me some anti-emetics, so I'm hoping that might help with things.'

'Hopefully. Are you hungry now.'

John's forehead wrinkled. 'No, not yet. I don't want to risk it until I've had more pills' He yawned. 'I'll tell you what though; I'd forgotten about the crazy morphine dreams.'

'Really?'

'Mm. There was a pharaoh sitting exactly where you are, all made of gold and wearing gold chains and stuff, and you were trying to arrest him for something.'

'Huh. Strange.'

'Yeah, then Lestrade flew in and took him away, and then Mrs Hudson turned into a dragon and torched your head.' John frowned. 'I mean, you wouldn't actually bring someone here to see me like this, would you? Because I have the strangest sensation I've had this conversation with you before.'

'What? No. I'd never do such a thing. Close your eyes again, John. I'm pretty sure you'll have calmer dreams now.'

John, looking only slightly suspicious, obeyed.


End file.
